


Me and the Devil

by voodoochild



Category: The Inside (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Boss/Employee Relationship, Dom/sub, F/M, Handcuffs, Porn Battle, Power Imbalance, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sexual Abuse, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cole Brant, Rebecca comes to the conclusion that she cannot allow her past to control her. Web is the ideal solution to both experiment with BDSM and explore her submissive side. (Trigger warnings: non-consensual BDSM, eating disorders, self-harm, sexual abuse of a child, improper coping mechanisms for severe trauma, and serious power imbalances.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XI, for the prompt "Web/Rebecca, protege moi". Title from the Robert Johnson song. Web may prefer classical, but I suspect he knows this song well.
> 
> Set just after 1.02, "Old Wounds". Major spoilers for both that episode and the entire series. Please note the warnings in the summary. Given the canon, it should be a surprise to no one - you're getting off light, actually.

Two nights after the Strong case - after sending Paul on that fool's errand to Cedar's and walking into Cole Brant's lair and then waking up in the street outside - she cons Web's address out of Carter and rings his doorbell.

"I want you to cuff me," she says, as he opens the door.

He's just walked in the door not ten minutes ago. She knows, because she's been watching the apartment. Watched him pull up in the driveway and get out of his car. Watched him walk through the door, turning on the living room light and loosening the knot of his tie. Watched him pour a glass of bourbon - the cheap Kentucky brand, not what she'd expect out of him - and sip it while he sat in the leather armchair.

He inhabits his home the way she does - fleetingly, like they're both just passing through. It's a place to sleep and eat and do paperwork in that's quieter than the office. There are few personal touches in either of their homes; he's as mistrustful of the illusion of security as she is. Web's sole exception is the Frank Lloyd Wright-style Japanese block prints on the walls and the electric lamps.

"Tell me why," he says, stepping back and allowing her entry.

He knows better than to offer her a drink; that's for men like Brant, who need to earn women's trust and disarm them. Web already can strip her bare and flay her soul open if he so chooses. If he needs to. If it will solve the case.

She deliberately walks over to his chair and sits down, dropping her bag to the wooden floor. She slides off her suit jacket and rolls up her sleeves, revealing the bruises from Brant's cuffs. The skin is still a vicious red-purple, torn by blind panic.

"Why do you think?"

Web leans against the doorway, his eyes skittering over her wrists and ending on her face. "Survival."

"I could be taken by surprise again, like I was with Brant. I can't afford to panic like that around someone who isn't as concerned with safety as he was."

"Brant was a wannabe," Web says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "He played with BDSM. Thought he was dominant. You let him get too close."

She remembers being pinned by Brant's gaze, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. At first, it had been the good kind of control. Rebecca Locke could never have made it through the FBI if she hadn't learned how to sublimate her control issues. She experimented with fellow agents, frequented a sex club in DC. Learned how not to panic when she was tied up and learned that some pain was good, was necessary, in games of dominance and submission. Brant had tapped into that.

But then the cuffs closed in, she'd been hoisted up in the strappado (she'd looked it up the day after, wanted to know what had caused that reaction). She couldn't free herself and there was no safe word, no negotiations to allow her to control the game.

Web watches her as she remembers, and she digs her hands into the leather of the chair to calm herself. His calm is fathomless, absolute and total, and that lets her breathe. Virgil Webster would be nothing like Cole Brant.

"Yes."

He tilts his head to the side. "And you believe that could be a problem in the future? Is that the reason you're here?"

"Yes. I knew you'd understand."

She feels his focus narrow - it's no small wonder why Danny and Mel and Paul believe Web can read minds. The way he's looking at her is like he can read every thought that's ever crossed her mind.

That doesn't frighten her, though it should.

"Explain what I'm supposed to be understanding."

"You know why I need control." He raises an eyebrow - _continue_ \- and she takes a breath before speaking again. "Paul - he doesn't believe a woman would ever seek out pain. He knows my past, or at least, he thinks he does. All he's read is the news clippings, am I right?"

Web nods. "The news reports were lurid, but I know there are further details that you only told the police."

"Yes. Sexual abuse, most of it following some of the more extensive physical abuse. When I reached my teen years, others were experimenting with sex, doing things I'd been forced to do when I was ten. Dominance and submission was a way to sublimate the pain. A reminder, that I'd survived worse, and that allowing another even just the illusion of control is a sacrifice."

He shifts his stance, and suddenly, it's very clear that he's in charge. He does that a lot; slouches against a wall or in a seat to appear much shorter than his six-foot-two frame. It isn't only his height, it's other things. The glint in his eye when he ordered Paul to cuff her. The way the team lives in complete fear of him. The way he hadn't even needed to enter the room for Brant to know he was pulling the strings.

Natural dominants have a bearing, a manner of presenting themselves, that is unmistakable. Web not only has it, he has to consciously hide it.

"What is it that you want now?" he asks. "Illusion or reality? I can cuff you to be sure you can handle it in a tactical situation, and it'll be nothing but a test. Can you last one minute? Ten? An hour? Or I can do what you really came here for. I can demonstrate my control over you, cuff you wherever and however I want, and you'll have to take it."

Her breathing begins to accelerate, coming faster and more shallow. It's effortless for him, reading people, seeing what they need and how to strike right at the heart of them.

"Cuff me, _sir_ ," she says, and doesn't miss the flash of a wolf's grin.

"Stand up," he orders, and she complies. "Take your shoes off and leave them by your bag."

Right pump, left pump, and they clatter to the wooden floor. It's cool on her bare feet, which are clammy and sweaty from walking in them all day.

"Come over here."

She stops directly in front of him, much shorter after losing the three inches in heels, She looks up at him, and he seems even more strong, even more solid, than before. There's a bright gleam in his eyes, a small smile on his lips.

"Ground rules. You're familiar with negotiations?" She nods. "Good. First rule, I speak, you listen. You don't respond unless I say. Nod if you agree." Her head bobs again. "Second rule, there are boundaries. I do not make it a point to become sexually intimate with my agents. That being said, your reaction to dominance is an innately sexual one. I won't touch you, but I might give you permission to do other things. Is that acceptable?" She doesn't trust herself to do anything but nod. It's disappointing, his views on fraternization, but she likes that he hasn't ruled out sexual contact entirely. "Third, and you can speak to answer this one. I need a safe word."

Rebecca can't look at him as she answers. "Ice cream."

He's read the police reports - the ones no one else has seen. He knows that the Pony Man was eating ice cream when he watched her, and that he'd give her strawberry ice cream as a treat after he touched her, when she was a good girl and didn't cry.

Web reaches out and tips her chin up. He hasn't touched her since she almost fainted into his arms on that subway platform, but her body snaps into arousal now as it did then. She'd known from that first day in his office that he was a man who wielded complete control, and she'd never found anything more fascinating. She'd gone home the night they were at Sandra Vogler's apartment and touched herself for the first time in months, remembering his voice, the way he'd smiled at her discovery of the subway connection.

He's remembering, too, because there's that smile, the crinkle to his eyes.

"Go into the bedroom. It's the hallway to your left, last door at the end of the hall. Make yourself comfortable, whatever you need to feel secure. Call out when you're ready. If I don't hear you, I'll be in there within five minutes."

Her feet take her where he wants her to go.

*****

His bedroom isn't particularly large or small, nor is it comfortable or spartan. It's a room, with some of the only personal touches in the house. Silk sheets (closet hedonism isn't surprising), a Dore painting on the wall opposite the door ("The Fall of Satan" from _Paradise Lost_ , quite apropos), a bookshelf of mostly Conan Doyle, in contrast to the criminology books out in the living room.

She unbuttons her blouse, He'll expect her to strip, knows she'll do it to attempt to throw him off, so she drops the blouse onto the floor, her trousers following it. She crosses to his closet, which is full of the expected immaculate dress shirts. Browsing through them, she finds a few at the back that are softer, in greens and blues instead of white.

The light blue will go nicely with her eyes.

His bed is what she'd expected as well - not overly plush or harsh - clean sheets with military corners. She selects one of the Holmes books - _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ \- and curls up against his pillows to wait.

"Let me guess - 'A Scandal in Bohemia'?"

He's leaning in the doorway, watching her read. He's removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it untucked over his white tee. His bare feet are quiet on the floor. There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though whether that's due to her attire or choice of reading material is anyone's guess.

"I always admired Irene Adler," she answers, turning a page. "She was smart. Didn't let Holmes win all the time. You - I think you enjoy the later stories. 'The Final Problem', Moriarty and Holmes at Reichenbach Falls, their games of cat-and-mouse."

A smile quirks his lips. "True. I've always liked 'The Red-Headed League' better, though."

He would. It's ridiculous and overcomplicated and the answer stares you in the face.

Barely a minute goes by, and Web clears his throat. He doesn't have to order her to put the book down; she knows what's expected of her. She lays the book on the bedside table, and stretches her arms and legs out. Her hands rest on the headboard, fingers wrapping around the grooved iron.

He makes a humming sound, low in his throat, and slides one cuff around her wrist before she even realizes he's moved. _Click_ , and the other cuff is attached to the headboard.

"This is going to stay on until I allow you to remove it. You won't be able to break it, or the headboard."

Close, he's so close and she can't move and oh god, oh god, she'll be good. She'll be good as gold and she'll get some ice cream and maybe it won't hurt as bad this time . . .

"Rebecca, look at me."

Web. It's Web, it's not the Pony Man. She opens her eyes, and he's sitting beside her on the bed. The metal of the cuff clangs against the headboard, her arm fruitlessly jerking and trying to free herself. She can hear her own breathing - loud, panicked, gasps for air - and Web leans over and lays a hand on her wrist, just below the cuff.

"Breathe," he says, and she tries to obey, but there are cuffs and a bed and she can't get out. "Rebecca, stay with me. Nothing can hurt you but yourself."

And that's the problem, isn't it? After the Pony Man, Becky had to come up with new ways to control the pain, and no one would hurt her, so she had to do something. Eat too much and then get rid of it. Stop eating altogether. Take a nail file to her arms and legs, places that were easy to hide.

She's good at hurting herself.

"Make me forget," she begs, pulling harder on the cuff. "I couldn't stop from remembering at Brant's because there was nothing else. Just the cuffs and him kissing me and the Pony Man laughing."

She can feel him studying her, watching her bite her lip and struggle in the cuffs. "I told you to stay quiet."

"I can't. I tried, but I can't. It's too quiet, there's too much in my head."

"You're not trying hard enough. Stop _pulling_ , Rebecca." Like his voice has flipped a switch, she stops. She unclenches her other fist from the sheets, and looks up at him. "You're acting like a child, completely unable to obey a simple request. Disobeying me isn't getting you out of these cuffs any faster."

Her eyes drop, chastened. "I'm sorry."

"Being sorry doesn't matter. Listen to me the first time."

She can't say anything in response, just keeps her eyes downcast until he sighs and pulls away. The cold against her skin is sudden, and she listens to him walk across the room and take a seat on what is probably the lid of the trunk in the corner.

"Those cuffs will stay on for twenty-five more minutes. If you stay quiet and don't panic, then I'll remove them. Pulling and screaming and babbling will only make me leave them on for thirty more minutes, and I'll leave the room so you can shout and scream all you like and I won't be able to hear you. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

Rebecca waits, tries every trick she can think of in the meantime to keep her mind off the cuffs or wandering into her memories of the Pony Man. Recites statistics, remembers the words to poems, lists every major serial killer by name and psychosis. She glances at the clock and it's only been ten minutes. Her head falls back against the pillow in frustration, and as she raises it again, she catches a glimpse of Web, across the room.

He hasn't taken his eyes off her, breath coming soft and fast, and the heel of one hand is pressed to his groin. _Oh._ Virgil Webster does have buttons, after all.

*****

Neither of them speak - he's forbidden her to, if she wants out of these cuffs any time soon - but her head tilts in curiosity. Does he find her attractive? Is he getting off on her helpless, under his control, or is it just a general thing, a young blonde cuffed to his bed?

His gaze burns over her, solid as if he'd stretched out his hand and stroked from her ankles to her head. Bare legs stretched out, braced against the bed; panty line just visible where his shirt drapes over her; two undone buttons at the collar exposing her collarbone and throat; nipples small and hard underneath the cotton; blonde hair spilled over his pillows.

He will not fuck her, she knows. Not this time.

And while that's disappointing, she can think of a multitude of other activities they could get up to. Lets him see it in her eyes, lets him know exactly what she's imagining,

She'd be on her knees for him. Most sexual abuse victims have an aversion to fellatio, it's usually one of the first things molesters will force upon their victims. She wasn't one of them - it was usually her hands or her body, not her mouth. Rebecca likes sucking cock, likes the different ways control can manifest.

It could be Web showing dominance over her, forcing her mouth open and around his cock. He could fuck her mouth as hard and fast as he wanted, use her for nothing more than wetness and warmth, and come hard down her throat.

It could be her who has the power, eager to give him pleasure and take nothing for herself. She could touch him, his legs and back and balls, feel his muscles tighten as he struggled not to come. Could swallow him down just to hear him beg.

His hair has fallen in his eyes, and that, combined with the intense concentration, makes him appear almost feral. There is something in him that, if not held in check, could burn out of control. She almost wants to see it - witness cool, calculating Web caught in passion and animal instinct - but knows she probably wouldn't survive it. He wouldn't leave witnesses.

Five minutes to go, and Rebecca can feel the responsiveness in her body. Slick, sticky feeling as her thighs slide together and a heavy warmth in her breasts. She raises her other hand, the one that's been clenched again in the bedsheets, and wordlessly looks at Web.

He nods.

Her hand is buried between her legs immediately, She hasn't taken her panties off, just moved them to the side, and she zeroes in on her throbbing clit. There's a high, shattered moan as she touches herself, rubbing circles around it, and a low groan from Web as he watches her. His hand flexes, and she shudders just as much in response to that as she does the pleasure she's giving herself.

Bracing her feet more firmly against the bed, she slides a finger into herself and almost comes just from that. She hasn't been anywhere near a sexual partner in months, and she's tighter than tight. Another finger is almost too much, and he can see the effort it takes for her to work it in. His bitten-off swear sends a shiver down her spine, and she makes sure he's watching as she slowly, carefully, fucks herself open with two fingers.

It has the desired effect, speeding up the motions of his hand and dropping his mouth slack with want.

"Let me hear you," he rasps, and she immediately cries out, sharp and high. "Good girl, very obedient now you're finger-fucking yourself in your boss's bed. Would it have been that easy, Rebecca? Fuck you fast and hard and you'd have been good as gold for me?"

She tries to bite it back, but it never works. She can't lie like this. "Yes, god yes. Can understand this."

He almost laughs, manic and sharp. "Slut. It's all right, you're mine now."

It's that word, it's always that word that makes her come screaming: _mine_. Might as well be Web's, if she's going to be anybody's.

And just as she's come, he's across the room and unlocked the cuff from around her wrist.

"Forty minutes. Excellent." She tries to reach for him, but he looks down on her with disapproval. "I told you, I don't touch my agents. And we're finished here."

She gathers up her things, changing back into her pants and suit jacket, pulling her hair back with a spare tie from her purse. She keeps his shirt, and he doesn't say anything about it.

If it means that much to him, he's welcome to come take it off her.


End file.
